Limited Animation
by Jennifer Wilson
Summary: Sometimes, the journey to recovery is slow, wibbly-wobbly and frustrating. Sammy just has to learn how to live in the 1970s. Henry on the other hand is finding that age sometime does put a crink in your joints... and screw your work schedule upside down.
1. Chapter 1

_Things were crawling over him. Black and wet; the dark patches littered over his skin like gangly spiders and he could not wash them off. The overwhelming taste of ink forever in his mouth. Chanting in his ear, the smell of candles choking him, clinging to his lungs._

 _"Thanks a bundle, Sammy-boy!"_ That _thing_ whispered in his ear. _"How 'bout ya take a jingle and turn into a silly symphony!"_

Sammy jerked out of bed, mouth open in a loud and piercing scream, half expecting to see the wooden walls and floors of the studio once more _._

 ** _"I'm sorry my lord I was unworthy of you, I pray for mercy, mercy, mercy!_ "** Sammy's lips were chapped as he uttered a plea. Sammy hoped that his god would not punish him. Oh oh oh, there were tingly things creeping up his spine, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Drips of paint in his ear, empty screaming, the smell of _d..._

Sammy shuddered as he grabbed the bed sheets. He felt the starchy material, a welcome change from the wet ink. Slowly, he raised his hands. Ten digits, fingernails newly clipped. No ink. His arms were wrapped in sleeves, his clothes freshly laundered and checkered, though Sammy could not discern the colour. No ink on the hem, just drenched in sweat. He rolled up his sleeves, half-remembering the dark patches that had overtaken pasty skin that had never seen the sky. Sammy could see the bones sticking out, but they were bare as he rolled up his sleeves. No ink, no ink, NO INK.

"I'm here. I'm safe." Sammy whispered to himself as he allowed his head to rest against the pillows. He allowed his fingers to rake across his scalp, tiny bristles of baby hair encountering callused fingertips. Sammy touched himself, finger by finger, once again wondering at the dry, clean feel of bare skin.

"Sammy?" He heard a voice cry out, and tensed. He curled his toes, almost ready to rise before the door vibrated with a knock. "Sammy, are you okay in there? Need me to come in?"

"I-I'm fine." Damn his stutter. Damn his uncertainty. Damn the fact that he still felt unsure of his surroundings, that he had to sleep with the lights on for fear of being devoured by the darkness. _Damn_ him to _hell_.

"Can I come in?" Henry was still outside, loitering in the corridor. Sammy paused in the midst of thought, his fingers grappling against his arms, struggling to steady himself, to no longer show fear of his surroundings. Sammy knew he was better than this. He could be stronger, he could be brave to face everything. But still, his throat uttered no sound.

"I couldn't sleep, so I guess if you're awake, I can talk to you?" Henry ended in a questioning tone, still hopeful. Sammy bit his lip, feeling the metallic taste wrap round his tongue before he finally acquiesced.

"Come in." The door opened with a soft creak, and Henry's age spotted and wrinkled face poked behind the door. His glasses rested firmly on his nose, while his lips were upturned in a genial smile.

"Hey, Sammy." Henry grabbed a nearby chair before plopping himself onto it, next to the bed. Sammy watched as his nimble hands curled around his each other, and licked his lips before he realized what he was doing and stopped.

"Hella Henry." Sammy's voice was steady, but he did not think he could control the shakiness of his tone.

"I kinda had a nightmare about the studio, so I woke up. Couldn't get back to sleep, so I was planning on doing another round until the morning, but I heard you, so I thought that this might be better." According to Henry's niece, Henry was the head animator of their small studio, so it was no wonder that Henry had decided to get to work. In fact, Henry's workplace was a few floors below, so commuting was relatively easy to do so.

"Ya didn't need to see me." Sammy retorted, hoping to get some of his old personality across. Now that he was out of the studio, he could remember flashes of what he was before. Sammy knew objectively that he had been quiet in nature, productive in his output, but soft spoken in person. According to Henry, he hardly spent time with the animation crew, but Sammy thought it sounded right. After all, if he had got out more, maybe when he had been ... _converted,_ he would not have been left to rot in there.

The studio's lawyer was still searching through the tax records for traces, but Sammy had forgot most of what had happened before, and Lawrence was a relatively common surname, so he did not have much hope of finding something concrete. Henry's niece on the other hand was helping him apply for identification papers, seeing that Sammy had nothing on him when they escaped, apart from a pair of trousers which they had thrown away as soon as he had gotten into the hospital. He hoped that they had been burnt thoroughly.

"Maybe I just need someone to talk to, and Louis doesn't hear while Jeanne sleeps like a log." Henry cheerfully said as he started fidgeting with a pencil. Sammy twitched in response, recalling someone doing a similar action.

 _"Boss, ya know I was thinking of..." Sammy stopped in mid-sentence as he stared at the bloody circle and pentacle inscribed in ink on the floor. He had been fed up with the ink bursting over his head for the umpteenth time, and decided to quit and find another job. After all, he had been taking up the workload of those who had quit earlier, and thought it was high time he left as well. Sammy was sure that the coffee machine was barely working as it is; whatever he had taken that morning was sitting unhappily in his stomach and the toilet was choked yet again._

 _"Ah, Sammy! Just the man I was looking for." Joey limped towards the door, eyebags having grown darker each time Sammy had seen them. This time, Joey's eyes were sunken in beyond belief, and his hands were dripping with ink. Joey's leg looked even more painfully twisted than usual; Sammy suspected that he had been using his crutches far more than advisiable._

 _"Boss, 'ryeah okay?" He asked, lips trembling as he thought of a good way to escape the office and Joey's grasp. Unfortunately, Joey had decided to wrap his fingers tightly around Sammy's wrist and firmly dragged him into the pentacle._

 _"Boss, what 'cha doing! Leggo!" Even as Sammy protested, the former World War One veteran overpowered him, and Sammy was left to struggle in vain as he was forced onto a wooden chair and bound tightly with thick hemp rope. Not for the first time, he regretted he was born with a weak chest. He was still young, but was often caught breathless as he climbed up the flights of stairs that went from music department to management. It did not help that Joey towered him by a foot, and proved how difficult it was to struggle against him when Joey was determined on outrageous. Most of the time, it was somewhat sane, like bribing the big guys with doughnuts and setting up their studio with no start-up capital. On this occassion, Sammy was more than happy if his old friend would just relent on this and let him go-_

 _Soon, Sammy could hardly moved a muscle, and was gagged with a wad of paper thrust down his throat. Sammy felt his screams choked within his throat, every urge to twist in vain as Joey started chanting something strange._

 _" **Bendy, this is your host. This is the one who will set you free."** What emerged from Joey's mouth was both a mixture of blasphemy and heresy, but Sammy was more distressed by the inky black patches that were creeping up from behind his sleeves. He thought that they were just stains from the ink machine pipe that was just outside his office, but now he suspected something else. Cold shivers wrecked his spine as he continued to holler for aid, but there seemed to be no one listening to him at all._

 _Sammy's eyes darted around him as he felt growing numbness from his feet. As he bent down, a growing horror emanated from within as his feet started to dissolve into ink itself. He tried to move his body out of the pentacle, hoping that it would interrupt the ritual, but whatever was left of his legs had no traction at all. Sammy felt something wet streak across his face; more ink. There was ink everywhere, from his darkening shirt to his face to his arms..._

 _Sammy found the Bendy plush that was sitting within his line of sight, mouth sewn in an eternal grin. He could have sworn that the ever-present cutout of Bendy was moving, opening its mouth up and down and saying something..._

 _Bendy...Bendy...BENDY WAS REAL! Sammy could feel his consciousness slipping away, while his mind remained focused on Bendy as he felt his body disintegrate into nothing but ink. Out damn spot, he thought feverishly, but still the darkness drew him in-_

" **-Hear me Bendy. Arise from the darkness-** " Sammy felt himself muttering under his breath. Still, his Lord whispered in his ear, lamenting the lack of sacrifices, the lack of obedience due to him. Sammy was ashamed, how could he have forgotten? Joey had martyred himself for Bendy, and Sammy had done nothing but-

"Sammy! Sammy!" Sammy's eyes rested onto Henry, finally regaining control of himself. His throat felt like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing against each other while blood was dripping down his chin. Meanwhile, his hands were not only gripping against the bed sheet, but were in the process of tearing the sheet apart. Meanwhile, Henry had started rubbing circles down his back while speaking softly, calmly. Sammy took in a harsh breath, feeling the hoarseness of his throat. He must have been screaming, he thought, deadened to the rest of the world. But now everything was becoming clear, unfocused.

"Do you think you can drink something?" One hand was taken off the sheet and around a cup, and Sammy was forced to sip from it. As his lips left the cup, Sammy allowed the cool sensation to rest upon his tongue, welcoming the lack of taste before gulping it down. His throat soothed, he started to breathe deeply, feeling his stomach rise up and down as his body struggled to inhale. Sammy's cheeks reddened as he discerned his surroundings, bare skin and clothes and a warm bed and _Henry._

It had only been a memory, but still, his entire body was paralysed. It was as though he was just watching himself in Joey's office, being wrapped in that dark abyss yet again...

"Oh my god Henry I'm so sorry." Wracking sobs burst from his chest as tear drops, not ink, dripped onto the now ruined sheets below. "I just thought I was back there again and I can't stop seeing Joey and that blasted ink and...and..." He could not say anything else, but continued to weep as Henry awkwardly patted him on the back.

"It's okay, I've seen this before." Henry consoled Sammy as he allowed the former music director to lean on his shoulder. "It's okay, it's okay..." They stayed in this position while Sammy continued to keen noisily on his former colleague, fear and regret roiling in his chest as he tried to stop himself, only for new worries to emerge anew and causing him to continuously cry. Sammy was disgusted with himself. How could he lose control just because of a bad nightmare? He should have had more dignity, his pride that had seen him through life vanishing after...after...

"Why am I so useless?" He finally whimpered. All the tears seemed to have dried up, but he still felt a stone laden heavy within his heart. Sammy hated being weakened, but he could do little else but go to sleep, wake up in the middle of the night and stay in bed till dawn. Perhaps he might fall asleep in the middle of the day, but otherwise he spent his time either lying in bed or going to the park, sitting down and just listening to the outside.

"...Sammy, I was thinking." Henry spoke as he gently grabbed Sammy by the shoulders. "Jeanne and I have been discussing if you would want see a doctor about this...this sickness. I knew some of my old army friends did."

"You mean see a shrink!" Something hot and messy blazed within Sammy's chest. He screeched, "I don't need to meet some quack who thinks he knows what's wrong with me-"

"Not a quack. Shell shock!" Henry interrupted, looking sterner than usual. Sammy blinked. He knew about shell shock, it was what Joey had sometimes mentioned and some of the men who had came back from the Great War had discussed in the break room. But for something like this...

"But I don't think I have shell shock." Sammy muttered under his breath.

"A version of it, I guess." Henry declared. "We can't keep ourselves together like this." Sammy's mind wandered through the subject. He knew that by himself, he could never be normal again. Each time he attempted to play the piano, that beloved instrument reminded him of the hymns he had sung to invoke Bendy. Or the time he had painted on the walls with one finger. Already, Henry's workplace was out of bounds of him due to his tendency to faint upon smelling ink or the weakening urge to preach to _Bendy_ whenever he caught sight of one of Henry's old Sillyvision merchandise. Sammy wanted to do _something_ about it, but still...

"I know a good one which I saw after the Pacific War. Want me to contact him? I think he's still active." Henry piped up, reading Sammy's face.

Sammy bent his head down, dazedly examining the ruined sheets, feeling the sweat coated pajamas sticking to his back. _Well_ , he told himself. I _need to get over this. I want to go back to being_ **normal**.

"Okay. I will do it." Henry grinned in approval as he patted him on the back once more.

"Then it's settled. I'll book an appointment with him in say, two days time." Henry replied as he wrapped an arm around Sammy, breath sending warm sparks underneath his skin. Sammy hugged back, craving for the day where he could touch a music instrument without bursting into tears.


	2. Chapter 2

_I am alive!  
Immortalized  
You're the creator  
You traitor  
Hey!  
There's no vaccine  
To cure our dirty needs  
For now you must  
Build up our machine  
You die tonight_

Sammy blinked as his fingers left the keyboard. He looked around him, half-expecting to see a Bendy cutout slipping from behind him. Instead, his eyes met the four corners of the recording studio, and rather than wood, he felt his bare feet touch the cool linoleum of the room.

Sammy sighed, breathing in and out as he tried to reassert himself. Earlier on, perhaps out of nostalgia or merely because of muscle memory, he had started playing one of the tunes he had played while composing for Bendy's cartoon. However, he must have unconsciously started playing something else instead, because what he had been singing was disturbing to say the least.

Luckily, the recording studio was sound-proof, and far apart from the rest of where Henry and his workers were at, so he was comfortably sure that no one had heard this lapse. Still, he suspected that Henry, the worrywart that he was, would be beset with anxiety. Sammy did not wish to be dependent on Henry for support, and playing by himself in the recording studio was one way of coping with the voices in his head. Bendy could not tell him to do things if music was drowning him out.

Sammy was just about done with listening to that damn demon's orders. Talking to the shrink had been uncomfortable at first, but the non-disclosure agreement had helped Sammy in being able to talk to Dr. Andrew about his experience within the studio. To his credit, the good man had not changed his poker expression even as Sammy talked about his 'god' in detail, listing the things he had done. Even now, Sammy felt ashamed at having cut his palm and blending the cans of bacon soup together with his blood in the hopes of pleasing Bendy. It was Dr. Andrew who had suggested writing this down in a personal journal along with what he had experienced in order to...unearth the source of his fears.

Sammy frowned as he thought about Henry. Henry was nearing his seventies, but was still working on animation. The industry, according to Jeanne whilst they were having breakfast, was experiencing a slow down, and in order to cope with this, the bigger studios were retrenching a large portion of their workers. While this meant that they were receiving more projects due to their perceived competitivity, it also meant enlisting members of their staff on lower pay in a bid to keep the studio open. Henry was supposed to retire, but instead of relaxing, he had rejoined the studio as back-up staff when meeting deadlines. Jeanne had tried to persuade Henry off this course of action, but it looked like Henry was planning to draw cels until the day he decided to rest for eternity.

Sammy recognized that Henry was devoted, but rather than being impressed, he felt pressured instead. Sammy wrote songs for the opening themes to some of the emerging singers who had no gift for recognizing tunes, but he knew that he was out of date with current trends and was trying alleviate this by listening to new tunes. In his heart, Sammy knew that he was more suited to songs sung by characters, and Jeanne was also looking for contract work for him while handing some of her managerial duties over to Jeffrey, her assistant manager.

If only they were bigger, then maybe some of the manuscripts that the interns were planning to sell to the big companies could be done by them, and the studio would benefit from some of the profits rather than being on contract-

A wave of nausea and cold tingling signalled Sammy to jerk away from the piano immediately. He hurtled through the door of the studio and marched up the stairs, taking two steps at a time before heading into the first door on the right. Closing the door behind him, his vision blurred, and he groped for the handle bars that Jeanne had installed for the benefit of both he and Henry as he bent down over the toilet bowl.

Bile crept up his throat as he vomited his breakfast down the bog, feeling saliva coating the roof of his mouth even as his surrounding seemed to spin and warp around him. He grasped the handles more firmly as his fingers tapped in what he distantly recognized in 3/4 time. Sammy's stomach felt like butterflies were squirming in and out rhythmically as he attempted to brace himself against the next wave, and liquid ran out of his mouth as he heaved again.

This new round of medications was supposed to help him deal with his god-no Sammy, stop, he isn't your god-with Bendy's and with Joey's voices, but Sammy did not appreciate the side effects of constant _mal de mer_ or the tremors that crept at odd hours of the day. Thankfully, not once had it interrupted his recordings. Small mercies, he supposed.

Turning away from the toilet bowl, Sammy flushed it as he headed towards the sink, intending in washing his face before resuming his work. He inspected himself in the mirror, noticing to his pleasure that he had filled in somewhat despite being barely able to keep down his meals due to the new drugs.

Humming a tune to himself as he emerged out of his bathroom, he turned towards the animation studio, hoping to chat with Henry before heading back to the recording studio. Sammy entered the room, trying to catch Henry's eyes-

"Henry, I was thinking-"

Bendy. _Bendy._ _ **BENDY.**_

"Oh Sammy! I was planning on tell you..." Sammy shut his eyes. Turned away. Counted to three. Turned back, and opened his eyes once more.

"Ha. Haha. Hahaha." A wave of darkness came over Sammy as he felt his knees buckle beneath him, before he decided to give up altogether and fainted on the spot.

"...-ammy, you okay now?" Sammy groaned as he sat up. Feeling the fabric under his hands, he guessed that they were in the lobby. He searched his surroundings fearfully, but the smiling devil did not leap out from behind the furniture or underneath the door. Henry, who had been leaning towards him, hands clasping a bottle of smelling salts, withdrew as Sammy maneuvered to a more comfortable position, arching forward, elbows on his knees.

"He isn't here." Sammy whispered out, heart shaking in relief. "Oh lord," Henry gave a noticable twitch, but Sammy could not bother to correct himself, "Not here..."

"Sammy, were you seeing something?" Henry, to his credit, had made his voice seemed steady and firm. Sammy needed that rock of stability; seeing things that don't exist was always evidence to push mad men to the loony bin. Of course, Sammy knew objectively that he was not insane. But normal people didn't see cartoon characters out of nowhere. Or worship them and try to sacrifice their former work colleagues. In fact, nothing he had done in the studio was in the right mind. Haha. Maybe he _was_ mad then.

"Sammy, you're speaking out loud again." Sammy could have lept out of his skin with the force of his shock. He didn't mean to say what he thought.

"Maybe because back at the studio, you couldn't help doing so? Can you remember how long you were there?" Years and years. Time wasn't a marker when you could feel yourself dripping, staining the wooden boards and the constant feel of ink swirling beneath your skin. Or of sudden unconsciousness, the time between resting (for Sammy could not sleep. That inky dark abyss did not permit it.) and finding yourself in a different location.

"Woah, deep breaths. Deep breaths." Sammy felt a hand on his throat, and he frantically pushed away at it.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" Sammy shrieked, scrambling to his feet. "I DON'T NEED ANYONE'S PITY!"

"Fuck, sorry." Sammy could make out Henry's distant appologies, and the screeching of chair against the floor. "I'll come back later, okay? Take a break first, I'll send someone to get your things." Sammy was tormented. On one hand, he wanted to apologise, to tell Henry not to leave/ _abandon_ him. But an evil voice in his head seemed to hold his tongue tight to his mouth, and Sammy did not let words pass his lips as Henry left the room.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, knowing that Henry could not hear. Why did he shout back? Henry had helped him out, but Sammy just felt so tired, and Henry's concern was like an itch that badly needed scratching. So Sammy had struck back, temper flaring and probably made everything more complicated and his head was filled with agony.

Back at the studio, the only interactions he had were with his lord and with the various ink creatures that dotted the studio. Most of them had been vanquished once Henry destroyed the machine. While Sammy was slightly better than them, his human shape had done little to alleviate the roiling within his soul. Or of the times he had invoked Bendy's name in attempting to escape the studio.

Sammy hated how his body and memories betrayed him. How he couldn't remember much before being made into a cartoon. No, that wasn't right. A _parody_ of a cartoon. Not human, but not two-dimensional either. Merely the boogeyman of a child's nightmare. Sammy wanted to scream and rage and gee golly, wasn't it just _fantastic_ when your meds allow you to blow your top instead of everything feeling dull and grey and blank? And Sammy must have been used to saying his mind because no one heard him; no one other than him and the cartoon and the damn ink machine that screwed his life and mind twice over and Sammy couldn't get over what it had done to him.

The shrink had told him that being angry was natural, but Sammy didn't just want to be angry. He wanted to move straight through all the stages of grief and go back to normal fast and things just weren't going well and he wanted to scream and yell without restraint. If he hadn't been transformed, he might have regretted moving back to the human world where there was more complexity and ambiguity, but retreating from reality _was not_ an option whatsoever.

Maybe it was better he died. Then Henry could move on with his life and Jeanne wouldn't frown at him whenever she caught the two huddling together and Sammy no longer felt that he was betraying anyone by trying to live as normal a life as he could. _No._ He had to stop thinking about this. Right now, he was going around in circles and he had to make up his mind and Sammy needed to make things right; it was only fair, because Henry didn't deserve his former colleague barging into his life without an explanation, not to mention that it was unreasonable to spite the one who took him in despite the temper flare-ups which _he had not missed at all._

It was a set-back. But Sammy's therapist said that most that went through therapy willingly could continue to lead everyday lives and so Sammy was more or less on the road to recovery. Something so small shouldn't hurt so much. But it did.

But it did.


	3. Chapter 3

Sammy grimaced. What was Wally's catchphrase again? Oh yes, he wanted to be out of here.

"Breathe out, Mr. Lawrence." Sammy attempted to follow his instructions, only for his throat to get stuck on something, and he coughed into a paper napkin that the nurse had helpfully provided. Despite having gone to see the shrink a few times and getting used to whatever meds he was on, Sammy still could not stand the taste of bile up his throat or the motion of going through these tests.

"Hmm." The doctor scribbled something incomprehensible, which was probably the point of having terrible handwriting if your patient can't see what you're writing, before nodding. "As far as I can tell, you're doing fine on your current medication, so I'll get Mrs. Dawson to arrange your next appointment with me in say, six months time?" Sammy made the cursory agreements and walked out of the clinic, slightly out of it.

He later finds himself back at the recording studio. Various instruments donated or bought lay scattered about the room, free for his experimentation. Sammy picks up one, testing the sound before putting it down. This was his custom; by trying each one and getting a rough feel, he would be able to form a tune in his head, which helped in composing. Eventually, he picked up his favoured instrument, and started finger-strumming the banjo. Hmm, it had went out of style except in country music, but Sammy could see nothing wrong with being old-fashioned to start with.

"Urgh." Yet again, a new wave of light-headedness overcame him. He stood up, but the resulting dizziness caused him to sit down again. If it weren't for the fact that both Henry and Jeanne reminded him to take his meds, he would have long abandoned it, surrendering to voices in his mind. But he knew that he had to get this done. This song was the opening tune for the first cartoon that they were making. It just needed the lyrics-

As though his traitorous body disagreed heavily with that statement, Sammy's head swam. He groaned, resting his head on his arms, willing for the ill spell to be over as fast as possible. After all, his stomach was empty and so was his mind and everything was getting so grey. Stop that, he ordered his mind, as he attempted to concentrate on forming the lyrics of the song.

"Open up, another door." Sammy quietly whispered the completed lyrics in his head. "Moon above, it's noon o' clock tonight." He started humming the next few notes. Henry's interns were fully in charge of the story-boarding, while Sammy had read through them in order to evoke the same emotion that the characters were feeling. It was make-work, the studio could have simply just handed it back to the original contractor to arrange the background music, but Sammy appreciated the lengths that Henry was going through in order to make him feel more comfortable.

Tunes did not simply come into existence into his mind as it used to. _Just need a greasing of the gears_ , Henry commented when Sammy explained the possible difficulty in getting a former music director of a failed animation studio who had not done a proper, serious piece of work. While it was still cartoons, the animation style was all wrong. No longer were shorts of ten to twenty minutes in trend. It was either a feature animation, always by Disney (oh how it must have tweaked that bastard's nose to have a Bendy-lookalike rule the screen!) or commercials. Henry did some freelance work, raising his niece meant that he needed a steady job and drawing cartoons wasn't quite as popular if you weren't a member of a big studio, but he was gradually moving in. And Sammy had liked the familiarity of being in an animation studio that was clean, inkless apart from the animation department itself (but they had been using coloured inks! A luxury that Joey Drew Studios had never attempted!) and liked the recording studio even more. It was meant for musicians aspiring to send their tapes over to the big timers, but had found a niche for background music as Stephen and later Sammy joined the nascent sound department. Original music was arranged by the big-timer, but for in-between frames and the like, Sammy had been informed that it was either Japan, Taiwan or some other animation studio. Henry was part of the latter group.

Unlike Joey, who was focused on Bendy, Henry abandoned the characters as soon as they were on air, preferring to work on new projects. Sure, they were paid to do a second season if the cartoon were popular enough. But Henry, after coming up with the main idea, allowed the younger animators to develop the character further in search of fresher material to work with. It wasn't as if he was callous; Henry did pop in from time to time to advise on character development and story planning, but after the initial episodes, he would move on to the next production irregardless of the time spent. Sammy reasoned that it had to be why Henry had left Joey Drew Studios; their approaches were different. Henry said little on the subject, only that there had been 'creative disputes' that had went on between the two.

Upon realizing that he made an internal monologue about Joey Drew or Bendy without going into a panic attack, Sammy could not help but punch his fist into the air. Good! Progress on the avoidance of issues regarding his...experience in Joey Drew Studios. The shrink did not know the full details of what had went down, only that Sammy had been either kidnapped and fully brainwashed by a cult that worshipped a cartoon character. Sammy was still hesitant on how he wanted to explain that he was not human for a period of time. It would come out eventually; just not now.

Oh, the sheet music was getting ruined. Sammy dabbed at his eyelids with a napkin. He needed to focus on his work now. No more distractions.

* * *

Sammy objectively knew that he had taken pride in his appearance. Once.

Clad in a hospital gown, eyes sunken and dark with lack of sleep, crow's feet where there was once flat skin...He looked like a dead person. Frankenstein's monster with no stitches. In the insurmountable years that he had been imprisoned in the studio, Sammy had been broken and remade into the image of his Lord. Or was it Joey who did it to him? No matter, the fact that Sammy was a living wreck. A shadow of what he once was.

There weren't mirrors in the studio. Whatever water closets that had been installed were either choked with ink or stranded from the music department, his den was but the broken down pieces of a man's dream. Staring at this reflection, Sammy could barely recognize himself.

"Mr. Lawrence? You've been there for a while." The nurse outside helpfully reminded him, and Sammy twitched. Weaving his hands through greying strands, Sammy felt empty, as though whatever he had gone through the studio had scooped out whatever Sammy was and left a shell of a body in its place. Which could have been more upsetting were it not for the fact that Sammy had no energy to worry about that.

Sammy laid out the clothes that Henry had helpfully passed on. It was...neat, he supposed. Clean white short-sleeved shirt, grey trousers that had something wrinkly at the waist. Henry had called it an elastic waistband. Supposedly, one didn't need suspenders or belts to wear with it, making it easier for less dexterous hands. Pity that Sammy couldn't remember how to put one on.

"Mr. Lawrence?" What was that? Was ink running down his cheeks? Sammy lifted a hand to his face, brushing away the liquid that had been dripping down his face. He wiped his cheeks, before bringing it up to his eyes. It was clear, slightly sticky in nature, but transparent. Oh, these were...his head couldn't come up with the words, but it wasn't ink, and his shoulders unwound as he made this exceptional discovery.

Sammy attempted putting his hands through the shirt, while his arms were half-way through the shirt, he simply lost the energy to put his head through. As he struggled, the word for the liquid running down to his chin came to him then. _Tears._ It was something he was unused to, but at the same time, he recognized that it was shameful for him to come to this conclusion. Sammy broke down then and there, and he stayed there weeping as one of the male nurses nudged him out of the bathroom.

* * *

Sammy ruefully ran his hands through his hair-or where his hair had once been. Many an argument he had with Henry before eventually the decision was out of his hands. Literally. What he wouldn't do...

But that was neither here nor there. _Snip. Snip. Snip._ The scissors did their dirty work as the hairdresser wordlessly relieved of the stringy locks that had once been his. Sammy remembered being proud of it once. But now, it was all gone.

Henry didn't have any photos, and Sammy...just couldn't remember what color it was. After all, color had not existed back then in his world of ink and wood, and Bendy was old-fashioned even for his-its' time. Was it blonde? Was it brown? It was long, Sammy could remember it tickling the back of his neck. But it seemed that no one wore long hairstyles back then. And it was too long ago for Henry to remember such minor details.

Henry told Sammy to look forward to the future. The shrink advised for Sammy to look at what motivated him, and asked that he kept thinking on the subject when Sammy couldn't answer even after five minutes of silent thought. In the end, it became his 'homework'. Henry hadn't provided anything for Sammy to refer to, only giving him a smile and saying absolutely nothing. It was almost frustrating, trying to think for oneself. It was easier to get the answers from someone else, except no one seemed to be co-operating.

He gazed at the thing sitting in the corner.

 _Hey, let's put that frown upside down!_ Stephen, his new colleague had dragged him to a godforsaken hat shop. It was beaten down and the general untidiness had deterred Sammy; but Jeanne had launched herself into the shop after chasing them down from the studio, and dragged Sammy behind her. They weaved through some aisles, stumbling upon an enthusiastic Stephen.

 _Here, try this!_ Sammy had caught a beanie, though he did not know its name was, and Jeanne had picked it from his hands and placed it on his head.

 _It's no good. He looks like a cancer patient with that._ Sammy had the distinct impression that he was being made a fool of, but recognized it as light-hearted teasing once some of the outrageous looking things started being unearthed from the stash that Stephen had pounced upon. A top hat, squashed and hardly able to pass muster in the general public made Jeanne titter with laughter, while Sammy had profusely rejected the maroon fez that Stephen had offered. Even those massive Russian hats with ear-flaps had been somehow sold to this shop, only to be forgotten. The shop owner had got in on the act, providing vintage caps which would have been more appealing were they not dusty to the point of having traces of white from the usual suspects. Eventually, Sammy had surrendered to the humor of the other two mad young people and actively looked for one. Not that he knew what they were looking for; their tastes were horrendous.

 _Do you think I'm some kind of archaeologist?_ It was a horrendous looking thing, feather in cap like Yankee Doodle and hardly meant for human eyes. Stephen had smirked as he posed with it, but Sammy shook his head in polite rejection. Stephen had taken his suggestion with good grace, and the shopkeeper began to lose patience as his shop grew more disorderly with each thrown hat.

Eventually, it was up to the point where they were all chased out, having bought nothing. Instead, Stephen and Jeanne had broken out into belly laughter. Sammy tried to smile along, but it felt awfully fake. He felt hollow again. It had been so good, but like a pricked balloon, the momentary amusement he felt at the younger generation's antics faded only to be replaced by bitterness. Sammy may have a failing memory of what was there _before,_ but he was pretty sure this didn't happen. Was this normal?

The trio had gone back to the studio, Stephen weaving in to talk to some of the test audience for his soundtrack work. Officially, he was a part-timer who happened to do background music in a pinch. But Jeanne had already been plotting, not that Sammy or Henry had known back then. It was strictly a young people's affair, with many of the permanent staff (if such a thing existed in the cutthroat industry after the Disney failures and the shoddy work that Henry hated with the passion of a thousand suns) in on it. Sammy only found out later, but Jeanne must have been planning it a lot earlier than Henry had found out.

Sammy had went back upstairs, where a room had been cleared out for him after his stay. The animation studio was still operating out of an apartment complex, studio space being too expensive for a small business like what Jeanne was running. On his table was a piece of chocolate cake.

Sammy had stared at it for a while. He sat down, examining the choclate frosting on chocolate truffle. It seemed...suspicious. Sammy picked up the spoon that had been balanced on the plate, and scooped up a corner into it. The soft, exquisite taste filled his mouth, and he allowed the thing to swim into his mouth for a while, before gulping the bite down.

The act of eating was still awfully new for Sammy. Much to Henry's surprise, he had not consumed any of the soup cans that were lying about the old studio. Sammy had heard that they were horrendous to devour, but it was either that Henry had an iron stomach, or those things were still edible after 30 years past its expiry date. Jeanne posited the former as being more likely. Well, it was her uncle after all, she would know.

It was with confusion, and then growing horror that consumed Sammy when he realised just how long he had gone without food. As an ink creature, it was roaming about the studios whispering to his Lord and Savior (not that Sammy thought that Bendy was any kind of saviour now, not with what had happened in _the end_ ), preparing rituals that Sammy couldn't quite admit to actually believing in. Being an ink monster meant that he wasn't affected by dehydration or hunger like people should, and it had been an abrupt shock when hunger gnawed at his stomach after weeks of getting broth and gradually shifting to non-liquid substances.

The doctor had gently but firmly confirmed that he needed regular diets and sleep patterns in order to adjust. For someone who remembered staying up late at night to compose, and often skipped meals, Sammy had disliked the military precision that Jeanne and Henry had introduced into his life. Then again, it wasn't as if he had anything to protest. It was just the growing lack of control that disturbed Sammy, and the haircut had been the last straw that metaphorically broke the camel's back.

Sammy guessed that the cake was some sort of apology. How had Jeanne guessed that chocolate was his favorite flavor? But he appreciated the gesture for what it was, and gratefully woofed down the rest of the slice. It was only after he finished had he picked up the note that must have accompanied the cake.

 _Sammy,_

 _I know it must be hard, and I can't even say that I know your position. However, I would like you to know whatever happens, I would be here all the way. You can't shake an artist once he's got his mind set after all!_

 _Henry._

It was...nice to read the note. Sammy could say he was even a wee bit tickled at the last sentence. Henry could be wonderfully stubborn. Exhibit A: Going back to the studio and staying even when things appeared amiss. Sammy couldn't wait for things to readjust itself to his new normal though.

The cake tasted good. Like stars and galaxies bursting in one's mouth.

* * *

A/N: inspired by tiny-smallest on tumblr. Her Sammy fic is so good.

Also, the cake was bought for two bucks at the local bakery. Henry likes cheap pastries.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, don't you look contented." Sammy lifted an eyelid, as his vision gradually cleared up to find a dark figure peering down at him. The former music director hummed as he struggled to rearrange his limbs into a sitting position. He blinked once, twice, before hurriedly standing up in shock.

"Susie!" For it was none other than Alice Angel's voice actress who was standing before him. She was a sight for sore eyes, and Sammy suddenly felt self-conscious. Dressed in very unprofessional pants, covered in dirt, sleeves rolled up and his hair... Alice, no Susie made a slight giggle as he hurriedly wiped his hands on his pants, only to remember that he was making them even dirtier by doing so.

"Sammy, do you want to go get some coffee? My treat?" Sammy could only let out a weak protest as the woman dragged him off the grassy knoll that he had decided to lie in. It wasn't too cold, especially under the sun, and the grass was clean in some places. Sammy didn't like going outdoors, especially with his current appearance. But he appreciated the fact that he could even step outside, rather than being imprisoned indoors. The sky was blue, the sun had warmed the ambient temperature to a point where it was nice to laze in, and the smell of the grass and the shrubbery had encouraged Sammy to take a chance in doing something that he had never imagined himself ever partaking-sleeping on the grass.

And he had been caught by his former colleague. Embarassing, that. Susie had laughter lines in the corners of her eyes and her smile was glorious in its beauty. Unlike him, age looked good on her, made her seemed more dignified. More respectable than some hobo lying on the grass with duffed up cap and all.

Yet again, he felt like burying his head in the sand as Susie and he stumbled into a cafe, one with iron-wrought chairs and fine tablecloth. It was less crowded than the ones that Jeanne favored, but still, there were people staring at the two of them as Susie ordered a coffee. Sammy hurriedly declined her offer, instead picking some warm water, on the house.

"So..." Susie eyed him with a prying glance, "How have you been?" Without letting Sammy to respond, she started telling Sammy about her week. Her glee in getting a job as a speech and drama teacher in a nearby preschool. Reconnecting with her friends, sharing drinks with her family. Sammy answered about the weird hijinks that Stephen and Jeanne got up to. Or how Jeanne and her latest boyfriend were testing grounds right in front of Henry, who _did not_ need to see young love, and was very much happy to leave it aside. Susie had burst into laughter as Sammy finished off with the punchline-that Roy had admired Henry's work, but was too shy to say it, and had ended up offending the older animator without realising it.

"Good grief!" Susie curled a stray hair around her ear, dimples showing as she flashed a grin with those sensuous lips. "And he didn't know it at all?" Sammy had gradually felt more comfortable talking to the voice actress, and without thinking, he grasped her hand.

As quick as a flash, Susie pulled it away from him, face turning white. She caught herself halfway, and put it down. Sammy felt that he was responsible for the mood turning abruptly sour, but he couldn't figure out why it had done so. The two stared down, with Sammy peeking every once in a while.

"Sorry, it's not you." Susie broke the awkward silence, turning away. "It's just...oh I just wanted to say something to someone who actually _knows_..."

"I think that's true of me as well." Sammy offered, mind running to the one thing that the two had carefully avoided in their conversation.

Joey Drew Studios. The man himself was still undergoing psychiatric evaluation, and Sammy had rejected any knowledge of it when Henry had brought it up. He had done the metaphorical equivalent of putting his fingers in his ears, unwilling to hear more on the subject. But Sammy knew that it had to come up one way or another. After all, the police had to ask questions.

"I..." Susie lowered her eyes, cherry lips frowning in dismay, "I just said I couldn't remember what had happened there. Just that I was invited, and the next thing that happened was that I woke up in front of the studio with months in between and a large gap in between." She fidged, fingers twitching as she wanted to emote her frustration but was too scared to. "But...sometimes I just don't want to go up the elevator. Too narrow space, not enough room to breath..." She hissed abruptly, causing the hair at the back of Sammy's neck to stand. "Oh, I hate him. I hate how I'm so, so _afraid_ to do anything. I HATE JOEY DREW!"

The vehemence of her shout drew the eyes of those surrounding their table, but Susie easily met the glares, and the tables around them drew back into the usual murmur of voices.

"The sad part was," Susie continued, " that I trusted him in the first place. I was so happy to see his letter again, I didn't question why he did it...Or why he even wanted to see us again after the studio went bust. But I lost _months_ and the sad fact is that I can remember some parts of what he did to me." There was something wriggling within his chest, something that was hesitant and firm, fluttering in between the two extremes of fear and anger. Sammy wanted it to disappear, but he recognized that feeling. It was the same as the hours before seeing the shrink for the first time. Or when he looked at himself in the mirror right after the fateful haircut.

"I think we all lost part of ourselves." He began, trying to form words as elegant as the songs he used to write. It was so difficult when parsing the conflicting feelings he felt. Susie's face fell, and Sammy wanted to apologise, but Susie raised a hand, finger placed over his lips.

"He ruined you too." Susie's eyes glinted with tears. Sammy hesitantly began to nod, but was flummoxed when Susie seized him with both hands.

"Then we can both hate him together!" She cheered up, face shining, and Sammy suddenly recalled why he liked Susie so much. Susie Campbell was forthright and determined to prove herself, and Sammy loved her for that.

"Sammy?" Lost in his own thoughts, Sammy looked up. Like rose-coloured lenses lifted from his eyes, he could find the dark eyebags, and the way her fingers tensed. As strong as Susie might want to project to others, she still wanted reassurance, someone to share the pain with.

"I hate him too." Sammy could feel the tips of his mouth rise. "But can we not shout? People are watching."

"Well let them!" Susie's delight was reflected in her eyes, "Not as if we have anything to be afraid of!"

* * *

"A banjo?" Jeanne frowned as she glanced at his request. "Why would anyone want to use a banjo for composing? It's not flexible, and it sounds _old._ "

"Old? _Old?_ " Sammy could hardly believe his ears. Was she actually doubting his abilities? Or the instrument's capabilities, but that was pretty much the same thing. After all, any instrument relied on its musician for its song to be heard.

"Oh come on!" Jeanne wrinkled her nose as she pointed at the catalogue. "We hear bands, and I mean pop, rock and all that jazz! Who uses a banjo, except for country music?" And with that she left, striding away on her high heels.

"Wow," Stephen whispered once she was out of sight, "She really disapproves of it, huh?"

"Oh really?" There was something warm and hot burning in the back of his throat as Sammy stared at his catalogue. "Stephen?"

"Yes sir!" His co-worker hurriedly yelped as the catalogue was thrust into his chest. Oh yes, Sammy could recognize the newest emotion to cross his mind and fill him with desire.

"Can you get a banjo? Just any banjo, I can do the tuning and restringing myself." He turned on his heel, hands tightening around his pen. He had some serious composing to do. With banjos, oh yes; the tune that was perfect for the 'loathsome' banjo was ringing in his head right now.

"Uhm, what are you..." Stephen trailed off, but Sammy was too deep in his thoughts to care.

* * *

"You did it." Jeanne wore the most absolutely gormless expression that Sammy could have expected from her. She glanced at the tape she held with her fine, nimble fingers, before piercing him with the force of her glare. Sammy, on the other hand, was smug. And why shouldn't he? He did it.

"You actually composed an _ear worm_ with a bloody banjo. Of course. " She muttered to herself, before breaking out into humming. "And it actually _works."_

"Of course it did work. What do you think I was doing in the thirties?" Sammy rebutted. He was prouder than ever, especially seeing the impressed looks on the client's face. He had spent a night arranging the tune in his head, trying to make the banjo not just the main instrument, but the center piece of the tune itself. The song could not be written with a different instrument; only the banjo made the resonance, the highly catching twinge that made every jingle repetitive. In other words, the perfect advertisement tune.

"I like it!" The client showed his approval. Jeanne hurriedly plastered a working smile onto her face, making small talk as she led the client to the work office. At the sight of Jeanne's retreating back, Sammy smirked, basking in Stephen's awe. That showed her. _Old fashioned indeed!_

* * *

A/N: Spite is very good for creativity. Also, fluff, to lighten up the angst that Sammy's been experiencing for a while.


	5. Chapter 5

"What's this?" Henry held out the bowl of white soup cheerfully. The wooden spoon was grasped in Henry's nimble fingers, holding out a scoop of whatever is within. Sammy stared at it hesitantly.

"Chicken soup. Well, chicken gumbo, but it's more liquid than solid. Just what the doctor ordered." Sammy blew at it, before sipping from the wooden spoon. His tongue scalded, Sammy withdrew away from the spoon. Henry hissed.

"Ah, I forgot. Want to let it cool down for a while?" Sammy nodded, retreating further into the covers.

He forgot this part of being human again. Henry, armed with a thermometer, had checked his temperature and pronounced him sick with a high fever. Sick. As though being mentally ill wasn't enough, he had to …Stop that! Sammy ordered his mind warily. This was how his mind wandered; sometimes going into the depths of despair and feeling blue at the least warning. His shrink warned him that this was common at signs of difficulty, but Sammy felt that he could do better.

At times like these, Sammy reached for his feet, bending his knees closer and fingering his big toes gingerly. He couldn't forget how they were like stubs sticking out of his legs of pants. The doctor had thought that his ankles had swelled, causing the shuffling that had to be corrected each time Sammy found himself walking. Sammy could not explain that he had been transformed into ink and had stumps rather than feet, but now that he was human, he had clearly formed legs, and he used it as a way of grounding himself. Like now.

 _I have feet now. I'm not there anymore. I'll run when I'm feeling better._ Inevitably, this brought a smile to his face. He was still practicing tip-toeing, using the banisters to practice. Sammy could go up a flight of stairs without tiring out now, unlike those days at the hospital where he was reliant on the nurses to wheel him from one room to another for more tiring tests and examinations.

While walking was now accomplished, music-making was another matter altogether. He could not sing properly, for anything that came to his lips was hardly children's fare. Jeanne and Stephen had stared at him when he tried joining in. He thought it was a matter of hoarseness before David, Jeanne's friend brought in a tape recorder (unlike Joey's, these were metallic and shiny and new) and Sammy realized that the lyrics were all from Bendy cartoons, despite what the rest he was singing. Now, he needed to read the lyrics to ensure that he was singing the correct tune.

With those soaked, four-fingered hands of his, Sammy could hardly strum the banjo he held so dear. Muscles had atrophied along with his memories, and so he had to refer to the string notation each time he tried a chord. Sammy was good enough now with common chords, but he regretted that it was no longer as instinctive as before.

Sammy was the former music director of Joey Drew Studios. He had written tunes as it appeared in his head, and the leitmotifs that made the Bendy cartoons memorable were done by him. Sammy could not remember how easy it was, but it was a far cry from what he was experiencing now. His head felt woolly, especially whe the tremors and nausea hit him like a sledgehammer. Sammy felt the urge to retreat under his desk when it happened, because he felt useless, incapable of writing another note when he knew that it was erased afterwards.

"Henry, don't be such a worry wart. After all, you don't need to grow more pimples at your age." The pun fell as flat as a…pancake? Was that how the simile went? Henry got the joke, and let out a chuckle as he left the room.

It was silent. There was nothing. _There was nothing._ Sammy internally panicked. There was no hubbub of noise, no voices in the corridor like down below where the animators worked. Only the bed, the dresser, the closet and the table. What was he supposed to do? His brain still felt as though there were Vikings on drums, beating heavily and making his head work. He needed something to drown it out.

Radio! That was it. "I'll turn it on. There has to be some good music nowadays." Nodding, he turned the radio on. Perhaps "Willow Weep For Me" would be on...

* * *

Stephen peeked into the corridor. On one hand, sick co-worker. On the other hand, music studio was free now. Goodie!

"WHAT IS THIS DISGUSTING PIECE? INSIPID LYRICS! REPETITIVE CHORDS!" Never mind, he'll wait for when Sammy was well again.

* * *

Sammy attempted to smile. It wasn't working very well. What he could manage was a half-smirk. He guessed it wasn't really needed in this situation.

"Take all the time you need. I've got stuff to do as well." Eugene the dispatch carrier waved over as he sorted through the folders. Besides being Jeanne's errand boy, Eugene was also handling administrative paperwork. It was some cruel joke when the errand boy handles one's employment issues and the lawyer moonlights as a voice actor. Or, in Jeanne's case, do everything only to collapse near the deadline due to sheer exhaustion.

Sammy breathed deeply through his nostrils, before letting it out in one big huff. He was not permitted to smoke or even get a bit of Dutch courage due to it screwing around with his medication. He could feel his stomach yawning and throbbing. Perhaps he was hungry. Sammy knocked at the door. There was a scramble, perhaps the occupant was busy. Maybe he didn't want to answer the door today. Or that he needed to look for the keys.

The door abruptly swung inwards to reveal Norman Polk, former projectionist. Sammy absent-mindedly gave his greetings, carefully not meeting his eyes.

After…being turned back, no one who had been in that mass of souls wanted to meet each other again. Too much time had been spent together, their memories submerged beneath the agony of ink and sorcery. Sammy had been lucky enough, certain of what he was to have the majority of his memories back. Even if they had become clouded with time, and far less distinct than what he was recalling now.

Norman, from what Henry could recall, had been wandering around the studio. The Projectionist had fitfully wandered about, not speaking, only watching a cartoon over and over. He had a projector for a head. Sammy's coping mechanism had been writing songs, over and over to the point that he had gotten better at lyric-writing than he remembered. More catchy, and Stephen had rearranged them in order to keep up with the times. Even when Sammy despised the electro-tuning whatchamacallit that Shaun loved.

There were talks about putting the animation studio into something proper; official, rather than the gathering of animators, storyboarders; ink and paint and all the nitty gritty backstage workers that had made the leap together with Henry's niece into direct competition with the big guys. Not to mention that one of Henry's objectives for visiting the studio in the first place was to check if there were any squatters available. They were itching for studio space, and Henry had mistaken Joey's invitation as one done in warmth and times of friendship, rather than the cold-blooded manipulation that the other workers had fallen under.

Wally, bless his soul, as much as Sammy could under the current circumstances, had forgiven him from the comfort of the bedside. The janitor had been a Boris when he arose from the ink, and Sammy had not intentionally murdered Wally; just took his organs oh god-.

"Sammy, you've been staring at the window for some time now." Locked out of his reminiscing, Sammy's mind went into a fluster. What had he been doing? He stared back, recognizing that his mouth was in an undignified gape.

"I..I…" Norman gazed back at him, wide eyes mournful. Sammy tried to regain his words, but composure had been a distant dream after.

"I think." the former projectionist said slowly. "That you and I need to talk." An awkward silence was brewing between the two. Tension heightened, as Sammy could not think of anything to say. Why was he here again? He fidgeted in his seat, noticing the bare walls and shelves. Norman had moved in here two months back after being discharged from the hospital.

"How…" His adam apple started bobbing up and down, "How have you been doing lately?"

"Ah, fine. I saw my ex-wife the other day." A twisted smile. "She thought I had left her and remarried. It was a shock to see my son."

"How did you tell her that you…" Norman bitterly laughed as Sammy tried to ease his way out of the situation. Unsubtle, he corrected himself.

"The whole truth. She thought I was mad until her current husband linked it up to the Joey Drew Studio Disappearances. At that point my…" His voice broke, Norman's shoulders heaving with the effort. "My son apologised for thinking the worst of me. Cos he wasn't proud to have a father that abandoned him."

"My condolences." That was expected, right? To say that when you sympathise with someone.

"Ah, knew it could be worse. I heard Shaun tried to jump off a bridge. Couldn't deal with the voices in his head." That hit the nail on the head hard, and it was all Sammy could do not to start wailing on the spot. He tapped on the table, steadying his heartbeat.

"I've been working. For Henry's niece."

"Oh, I've heard of her." Norman sounded delighted. "Is that the one who they called the wunderkind? The one that did the special effects for Disney Studios?"

"Same person. There's a nickname for her. Ms. Capable." A pause, Sammy inching his way around the topic. "She animates, she sings and she leads."

"A woman after Lucille Ball then. Clever."

"She wants to start an animation studio. To be more specific, she's gone and bought one and now they're working their way towards feature animation."

Norman stared at him blankly.

"Look, I know it sounds awkward, but truthfully? She's got the nerve to challenge Disney on home territory. Not to mention bagging a whole chunk that left. Or taking over another animation studio."

"Growing in other words." Norman's head bowed over. "And you signed up for it?"

"Well, music can't change that much. Unless they've got that strange electro-pop tune that Stephen-my co-worker, I mean-has his mind on. I can't say the same for you."

"Nah, I switched to working at the bakery. Nice smell, lots of little kids."

"Not to mention feasting your eyes."

"On more ways than one!" Norman laughed out loud. "The lady's not too bad. Even if she's young enough to be my daughter." He sighed. "Far too young."

"I…see…" Sammy felt useless once again. First with Susie, now with Norman. Was it he who had no means of mustering any form of simple joy? Or was being a wet blanket all the time part of his personality.

"It's no pleasure. Then again, we live in a different time period. Know anymore gossip?"

"Grant got hired by Eugene, who's currently-"He peered through the window, "Dispatch and hiring. He's now handling the accounting. Shawn, last I heard, was readmitted. Susie's a drama teacher with her own little kids to teach. Allison…"

Norman shuddered. They both heard how she was still unsure if she was Susie, Alice, or both. Lost her mind, that one.

"Wally got a standing offer once he leaves the hospital. As for…" Sammy choked down a sob. "We're seeing him in court next month."

"Hey, if you need a witness or anything…"

"Yeah, about that." Sammy hissed through clenched teeth. "Bastard still claims that he did it with good intentions."

"Ptah!" Norman spat in disgust. "Nice enough to make us all ink creatures and be proud of his arse for it! No, I'll get my pound of flesh once the lawyers are through with him. Thirty years of being stuck under that man's thumb!"


End file.
